Centrifuge
by DevilMakesThree
Summary: One shots featuring the boys of South Park. Theme challenge. Creek, Stenny, K2, Crenny, Kyman, etc.
1. Exceptions

**A/N - So begins my collection of one shots! Some of them smut, some of them romance, some angst. Little bit of everything, methinks. The main pairings will be Creek, Stenny, Kyman, little Crenny, but I'm open for requests. **

**I'm really stoked for the undertaking**. **My goal is to upload one or two a week, and just see what happens from there. **

**I hope you guys enjoyed this one, its one of my personal favorite pairings. Stenny, ftw!**

**Dedicated to my friend AG, with love.**

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><p>"Oooh, fuck. <em>Kenny<em>—"

God, I wish she'd shut up. This isn't the fucking Grammy's, and her name isn't Mariah last I checked. It isn't that she isn't hot—her legs are a 10, to be sure, but I guess I'm just not that interested in how depraved her vagina's been up until the moment she met me. That moment being an hour ago, when she had the privilege of giving my sneaker a flat tire at the gas station in North Park. Two well-placed compliments and a wink later, I've got her spread eagle against my leather with her skirt up to her ribs.

She's kind of pretty, I suppose. Big brown eyes and long red hair—dyed red hair. Ladies, don't think us guys can't tell the difference. A true ginger with a nice face and a hot body to boot is too a rare find. It's like the first edition base set shadowless Charizard card of the dating world. Not to mention, unlike most ginger's, she's got a great ass. Tight. Round. Looks good in a skirt. And out of it, as a matter of fact.

"Unng—God, Kenny—"

Yep. It was her ass that got her into my backseat, and it's her mouth that's gonna win her a one way ticket out my back door. Hello, Asphalt Avenue. Jesus Christ.

"Shhh."

Maybe that's a dick move. I figure it's nicer than smothering her mouth with my jacket, though, which was my next move. Here's the thing with Sex and I. I love sex. I love fucking girls, I love touching their tits. I love grabbing their asses. But I really don't want to hear how good I am at it while I'm doing it. I don't know. Something about having your sexual prowess panted into your ear by every girl on the block and their mother really makes you feel—well. Like a dirty slut.

"Mmm. Kenny, yeah. That feels _sooo _good."

"Fuck. Please, just don't make so much noise—"

"_Kenny_!"

"Just shut up and take it!"

Not my best moment—I can't say I didn't mean it, but I could've said it with a bit more…what is that word Kyle's always drilling into my ear? Tact. That's the one. Anyway. She seemed more than appalled at what I'd said and the next thing I knew she was slamming my car door, walking down the highway with her heels in her hand. Whoopsie. Of course, I'm still hard as a rock and hornier than a unicorn, so I get out to follow her. Another unintelligent move–I do have to admit, though, that I didn't expect her to punch me in the face. One Night Stand Rule of Thumb # 1: Don't chase pissed off faux-gingers down abandoned highways. Especially not ones who wear rings. It was definitely a moment for Captain Hindsight, and sitting in the consult room of the E.R. an hour later I couldn't help but wish his brother Foresight had paid me a visit before the bitch had completely wrecked my eyebrow.

"Fifteen stitches."

The sound of that familiar voice nearly had me jumping out of my skin. I swear to God, I nearly climbed the fucking wall.

"Stan?"

Sure enough, Stan Marsh is looming in the hospital doorway, looking for the better part like a complete and total babe. Yes, I have the hots for Stan Marsh. Yes, I occasionally masturbate to his Facebook profile picture. Yes, I have wet dreams about him pounding my asshole. So sue me.

Sexual appeal aside, Stan is just a really decent dude. The kind of guy who'd carry your drunk ass home on his back in the snow. And then wipe the vomit off your chin. Not that he's done that for me before….more than once. Anyway, the point is, as petty as it might sound, and even though any North Park jackass would confirm to you that I'm nothing but well-educated white trash, I sort of kind of care about what Stan thinks of me.

Ridiculous, right? But unfortunately very true.

So when I see Stan looming there, looking a million kinds of unimpressed and a billion kinds of sexy, I sort of shrink down into my chair and turn red like a tomato. Very classy.

"Hey Stanny," I say, in the hope that maybe if I behave like a total and complete badass he won't look so pissed off.

"I was asleep."

Maybe not. I sink down even lower in my chair, dropping the attitude almost instantly.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs. Shrugs. I mean, what kind of guy gets a call from the hospital at 3 am to pick up his drunk, concussed friend, walks in, and shrugs? No big deal. Stan Marsh, that's who. My eyes follow him all the way to the chair beside me, where he plops down and rubs his eyes like he hopes he's only dreaming. Sorry, Stanny. I'm a dream come true. Subtext: does not disinclude nightmares, night terrors, fever dreams, or sleep anxiety.

Stan looks at me after a moment, all bright blue eyes and full lips and God, if I wasn't such a spineless dildo I'd be all over that. If I wasn't such a spineless dildo I'd kiss him right on the mouth, and then I'd confess to him that I've had a boner for him since we were twelve years old, and since I'm not a spineless dildo in this scenario he'd be like "Oh Kenny I wanna fuck you, too" and then we'd boff in my backseat and he could moan as loud as he wanted and I wouldn't say a goddamn word about it. Swear. To. God.

"You better stop looking at me like that, Stan. I cannot be held accountable for my actions in light of such temptation," I say finally, wriggling my eyebrows. Good. Deflect from the truth by telling the truth. Works everytime.

Stan raises an eyebrow and snorts. And shit if his snorts aren't a little cute. And shit, if his eyebrows aren't kind of sexy. I frown, looking at the floor for a moment. Stan Marsh could drop a giant brown turd on my lap and I'd still be impressed. True story.

"You smell like a winery," Stan says, drawing my eyes back up to his. He's kind of half-smiling and his eyebrows are sort of up and down like he's amused, and I get kind of stoked because maybe Stan doesn't hate me for dragging him out of bed. Maybe Stan Marsh really loves me, even if only as a friend. Hey, I'll take what I can get.

"I had a few drinks," I reply, smirking, "Only like three beers. Or like. Seven beers. No big deal amount of beers, is the point."

Stan smiles. Smiles. Smiles. Smiles…I could watch this guy smile all day every day and never ever get bored. He's got these teeth—I swear he's probably got liquid gold running through his veins where blood usually is in normal people. Stan isn't normal, though, not to me. Stan is the exception to the rule. To my rule.

Don't fall in love.

Sitting in the booth at Denny's at 3 am has become a regular occurrence for me lately. For Stan too, it seems, since I've been to the hospital at least four times this month for various and (typically) vulgar reasons. It's kind of cozy in its own right, and even though my heads pounding and reeling at the same time from the stitches and the pain killers, I'm still coherent enough to notice that they're playing "When a man loves a woman" over the loud speakers, and I have to smirk. Because when a man loves a woman he probably doesn't jack it to the thought of fucking his dude friend in bed at night.

I glance up after a moment, catching Stan's eye.

"What's so funny?" he asks, his own lips turned up at the corners. I blush, fully aware that any explanation would leave me up shit creek, no paddle what-so-ever.

"Just thinking," I say, and Stan nods in a very Stanish sort of way, and I wink in a meish sort of way and everything is as it should be. Parameters, and all that shit.

But then something happens, and it's different. It's not the sort of thing we ever do, but not something I haven't always wanted. Stan stands up, slips around the edge of the table, and deposits himself beside me, his hand resting on the length of my arm. I glance at him, and I must look pretty confused because Stan smiles encouragingly and then rests—rests! his head on my shoulder.

"What are you thinking about?" he mumbles, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear. Fuck if I don't come in my pants right then and there. My hand is shaking as I reach for my coffee, and I slop it onto my jeans trying to get the rim of the cup to my lips.

"You, I guess," I say, and it's a little too honest for me. This is a bad sign. That girl must've done a real number on my head, because my caution and reason is scrambled like an egg. I look up at Stan, waiting to see how he'll react. Maybe he'll punch my other eyebrow and I'll break even.

Stan seems to be considering me a moment, and then he smiles. Smiles.

"I'm glad you're okay, Ken."

Stan Marsh is the exception to my rule.

And maybe, just maybe, I think—I'm the exception to his.


	2. Stalemate

**A/N: A different take on Creek, don't worry, they won't all be this dark. I decided to write a piece reflective of one steretype of Craig, not something I necessarily believe or follow 100 percent, but a good challenge none the less. What inspired this little piece was actually my decision to finally read Like Pinning Butterflies. If you guys are into that kind of thing, really great story by a great author. Not my Creek cup of tea, though, it did inspire to pen this there's that.  
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**Hope you guys liked it, please read and review!**

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><p>"Fuckin' <em>sociopath<em>."

Sociopath. That's what they call me. Hey, my name is Sociopath, don't wear it out! Hey, you have no idea who I really am, because I am a Sociopath! I don't really care about you or what you have to offer, because I only care about myself! (In other words, I'm a Sociopath).

Smile. Just kidding! I'm a Sociopath.

I stare across the void, unblinking. Unmoved. Funny how a little thing like five feet can suddenly look like the gaping open mouth of the universe the second someone says something that might be considered 'the truth'. Ah, the truth. You and I have had our nights together, once upon a star. Not much left between us these days, though.

"You don't sweat do you?"

I sigh, the gush of air feeling rough and sandy between my dry lips. I try not to speak unless I have to. Words are just a fancy way of sugar coating what you see with your eyes. "Feel it in your heart" well what's a heart? A fist wrapped in blood. A motor. A conduit.

"I don't like wasting valuable resources," I say. I wonder why we're here. I glance around the room. It doesn't really make sense. Every word that rolls off my tongue sounds as vapid as I am inside, and yet he loves me. He always has. Perhaps he thought that there was some mask I was wearing, some tear away paper thing that given the right tools would reveal something more solid, deeper down. Something inside of me that was salvageable.

God, was he wrong.

"I love you."

"Thank you."

Here we are again, a stalemate. He stares at me for a long moment, and I think perhaps that I did love him, once. It seems a long time ago, and it's not so much of a feeling. More an inclination, a pinch behind my navel that reminds me that if it weren't for him, I'd probably be collecting heads for kicks.

He looks hurt, something I've never understood. The open expression of something that seems to me should be reserved for private time. I've always found it vulgar to just shove your emotions in people's faces, to give them no choice but to have to respond to you, comfort you. I never do that for him, but he still looks at me like he wants me to. Like he's waiting for me to. It infuriates me, in a strange way. It makes me feel uncomfortable, like Thanksgiving dinner.

"Craig—ngh—I'm leaving tonight. I'm going away."

My ears perk. Going away? Where is he going? My head feels fuzzy all of a sudden, and I look at him with a renewed interest.

"I'm sorry."

What's he sorry for? He's always talking in riddles—I can never understand. What the fuck does he want from me?

"I'm leaving you, because I can't—N-Nobody can…I can't live like this."

The room feels like its closing in on me, and my heart is racing. What is he saying? I can't figure out what he means. Words, words, words, words! I can't do anything with those easy fucking words. I stare at him, and I feel angry. I want to hurt him, to hit him like I've done to others before. He's going away? For how long?

_Forever, you fucking idiot._

I can feel myself standing, but I'm not sure why I'm doing it. He watches me, and I see a flicker there—fear. I'll never tell him, but I like it when he's afraid. He should be. I'm not safe.

"Go away, then."

I don't mean what I'm saying, I never do. My legs feel stiff, and wobbly. Like a fucking gazelle. That's what I feel like, a goddamn animal. Unfeeling, uncaring, unmoved—

_Then why are you sweating, Craig?_

Fuck off.

He's crying. I don't understand. _He's_ the one leaving _me, _so what the fuck is there to cry about? Shouldn't I be crying? Oh, if I could. If I could cry we'd probably be doing something normal—sitting on the couch. Watching a movie. Fucking. Something that makes sense.

He turns, his thin body shaking as though gravity has begun to crush him. And he's walking away, and I still don't get it. I never have.

I watch him go, and when the door closes I sit back down.

They call me a sociopath.

But sitting on the chair, listening to the silence—I'd swear I almost felt something like. Loss.


	3. Sorry

**A/N: Back again, with another story about the boys. This one is Kyman. As a side note: If this pairing offends you, don't read it. Because it definitely doesn't offend me, and I think I make that rather evident with the text. My thing about Eric and Kyle is that they really are kind of perfect together for the _type of relationship they have. _Key point.  
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**This one's definitely M. **

**Thanks as well for the reviews! I loved reading them and you guys are so sweet!**

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><p>I can't say that I feel sorry, really. Not <em>really<em> sorry. Not sorry the way people are supposed to feel when they're as devious as I am, as cruel, and calculating and _sick. _I suppose this is how murderers feel, put on trial. "Why'd you do it?" "I don't know, sir. Why did _you _do it?" "Well are you sorry?" "I suppose I am. Are you sorry?" I can't say that I feel sorry, but I find myself saying it a lot, despite that fact.

"Sorry."

He watches me with those eyes, those wild brown eyes that don't miss a goddamn thing. Sometimes I think he's watching me, even with his eyes closed. Even when he's asleep in our bed, and my dirty, condescending fingers are knotting in his smooth, cool hands. I swear he can see straight through, like I'm made up of water and he's just peering down to the very bottom. To the dirt, and the rocks, and the crevices that house dark and dismal things that live at the depths of my soul.

"Oh, _Jesus_. Don't even _start_," he says. I try to muster something like remorse, rearranging my eyebrows so that they appear less menacing. More sentimental. Because I am, aren't I? I'm one sentimental motherfucker.

"Start what?" I say, and my tone lifts in a way that suggests that I am genuinely perplexed. Bemused. Baffled. But he's not that easy to put off—not by a long shot. Perhaps that's why I like him so much. Perhaps that's why I love him, even, on good days. He's hard work, the skinny fuck.

"Pretending you even care. You don't care, so don't start."

I blink, my lips slanting. This gesture is more genuine, because genuinely, I'm kind of annoyed. Maybe I don't feel sorry for all the shit I put him through, and maybe I especially don't feel sorry for standing him up last night (I had work to do, after all), but I'll be damned if he starts pulling the 'You don't care' bullshit. If I care about anyone, it's him. He _knows _that.

"Some things came up," I say simply, as if this will smooth things over. The funny thing is I really shouldn't bother when it comes to Kyle Broflovski. I really should give it a rest, because he stopped trusting my affections when we were nine years old—but I get a sick kind of thrill out of it. The way his eyebrows knit together, and his fists ball up and his lips curl and he just _sneers_ at me like he can't believe that he ever let me inside of him. Inside his house (_Our _house), his mind, his heart. I get off to that shit. Nothing gets me hot and bothered like Kyle's mouth—not just around my cock, either. I could get off just listening to him rant on, the snarky, condescending drip edging around his words makes me want to pound him into our bed and make him beg me for mercy. Just because I know how much he'd hate himself—how much he _does_ hate himself every time I fuck him in a way that he finds humiliating.

And god, with the things that run through my mind—with the purpose I give those thoughts, each time we fuck has gotten to be more humiliating for him than the last. And I love it. I fucking adore it.

"Some things came up?" he repeats, and his eyebrows are bending furiously. "Some things came up?" he says again, only a bit louder this time. I can practically feel his anger, radiating off of him like a nuclear bomb. And god, I'd be lying if I said my pants weren't feeling a little tight all of a sudden. "Our seventh anniversary, Eric. And some _things _came up? Do you have any idea how much those reservations _cost me_? I could've bought a new car with how much I spent on that bottle of wine I finished _by myself _because _you _weren't _there_!"

I reach a hand out, cupping his cheek. It doesn't surprise me, doesn't even phase me that he pulls away. Doesn't even annoy me when he lets out a sound almost like a hiss, like a little rattle snake shaking its tail. Danger. Danger. Fuck, I hope he never realizes how sexy he is when he's mad. He'd probably stop being mad altogether, if only to piss me off.

"There's always our eighth," I say, and I know that I'm treading dangerous waters now. I brace myself for the blow of his fist, merely catching the hand he throws at me between my fingers. I turn bored eyes on him, no longer bothering with pretences. Why pretense with someone who knows all about your dirty laundry, and still lets you fuck them raw and then washes said laundry for you? Folds it, too.

My body is pinning his before he even has a chance to retaliate. And if he tried to fight me off, it was a weak attempt at best. Because the sick part is he wants this as much as I do. Likes to be hurt as much as I like hurting him. Revels in it, even. The slut.

He pants beneath me, his back arching up against my hips as I suck his bottom lip between my teeth. I lean in, my breath ghosting across the pulse point of his fragile neck.

"You know I'm going to fuck you, right?" I say, and he whimpers. Fucking _whimpers. _God, I'd marry the shit if he begged me for it. I'd do anything if he begged me. If he _whimpered _for it.

His clothes are on the floor before he can even comprehend what I've said in his frazzled little jew-brain, and his leg is over my shoulder, the knee bent back against his chest, giving me a prime view of his backside. I groan myself, not bothering to hold back. He knows how crazy he makes me, and, after all, I'm the one on top.

"I fucking hate you, you know that?"

God, I hope he does. I hope he hates me so much I can feel it. I hope it radiates into my skin when I'm fucking him.

I move my fingers to his sensitive opening, pressing the tips inside.

"Mm…"

And his head rolls to the side. I smirk, pressing my fingers further in and relishing in the way he begins to pant, his eyes screwed up. I wonder if it hurts as bad as he makes it look. I wouldn't know, I'd sooner sell my kidneys on the black market than allow him to do to me what I do to him on a nightly basis.

I work my fingers deeper, earning a moan as his hips begin to lift off the couch.

"Whore," I say affectionately, brushing his hair from his face. He mewls and I pull my fingers out, deciding that I can't possibly wait any longer.

"Jesus fucking Christ—"

I'm not listening anymore. Not to the expletives, not to his breathing, not paying mind to the way his hands are clenching at my back. Because I'm inside of Kyle, and that is all that has ever really mattered. I don't wait for his permission before I begin to move, slowly fucking him into the fabric of the sofa as he rolls and moans and grabs at my skin.

"Fuck—_Eric_—" he gasps, his head tilting back in what I can only imagine must be ecstasy. I slide my fingers around his hair, yanking his head back further.

"Fuck you're tight," I whisper, wetting my lips. I pick up my pace as he begins to moan, arching his back hard until his hips are working up and down like a see saw. And that's when I stop. And shit, it isn't easy. But it's worth it. Resting inside of him, his body trying desperately to shift. To feel my cock against the sensitive place inside of him. But I won't move, not until he begs. Not until he fucking _screams. _

"Please."

I brush my fingers across his cheek. Close, but no cigar, babe.

"Eric_, please_."

I press my lips to his jaw, pinning his hips with my hands. I can't have him squirming, after all. Kyle hasn't earned any loopholes, least—not tonight.

"Will you just fuck me, you bastard!"

That's the ticket. I press his knee all the way back to his chest, lifting his hips and slamming my cock inside of him. He screams, and it's enough. A few more thrusts and I'm gone, moaning my orgasm as I cum inside of him. Somewhere, it registers in my mind that he's come too. All over my favorite fucking tie. Guess whose taking my suit to the cleaners tomorrow?

He hisses as I pull out, and I gently pat his head, leaning back against the comfortable leather of the sofa that I let Kyle push all the way up the stairs to our fourth floor apartment. So, maybe Stan helped him. But I sure as hell didn't.

"My fucking ass hurts," he mumbles after a moment, but his fingers against my arm betray what I already know: That he loves me. That as fucked as our relationship is, that as much as I humiliate him, he loves _us_.

"Sorry."


	4. A Ring of Salt

**A/N - Andddd I'm back! A kind of unique pairing here, but one I really like.**

**Pairing: Damien/Pip**

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><p>They say that the last enemy that will be destroyed is death. But who ever said I was the enemy? I didn't ask for this; never wanted to be a part of it. Just got caught up, I guess. Pulled into a world that I confess I've never truly understood. I've lived an unconsciously devious life. I've always done what I was told, followed my instructions. Not without consequence. I have felt, for the better part of my life, suspended—hung like a marionette. Dangled above by strings that I cannot see nor control. My existence is a haze of greed, lust, envy. And all I really want is to feel…<p>

Something different.

Something loud, and incredibly close—something that deafens the ache of my consciousness and makes me _scream. _I want to be hit with emotion, struck hard in the chest by it. I want to be blown through like a bullet, I want to be left to rot.

Mostly, I just want to be alive.

Even death can dream.

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><p>I watch him from across the hall. Does he know how long I've followed after him? Does he know that I've spent most of my life watching him sleep? Dream?<p>

Does he know that I want to be inside his skin? To be so close to something so endlessly _good_ that I just cease, entirely. That I become him, like a tree growing up through a glass house. I've known him since I was a child, and I covet him like a jewel. He's simple, unaffected. His life is marked by small sorrows and great tragedies, and yet a million smiles have passed his lips and a thousand splendid suns have broken through his eyes in the springtime. He lives, truly.

My eyes follow the way his knees bend as he bows his back to scoop the letters off the floor. The ones the postman left earlier, along with a package from Johannesburg, where I know he has a relative. He stands and my eyes move across his figure, tall and lithe and made beautiful by age. Gone is the gangly, underfed orphan of our younger years, replaced instead by a tall and languid young man.

His hair is still a startling gold, kept short and tousled and tucked beneath a tattered paperboy cap. His eyes, green, glitter behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses. His legs, long, are covered by slender gray jeans, the king that taper at the ankle, exposing the laced leather boots he inherited from an old roommate. His torso, toned, is wrapped in the confines of an oversized gray cardigan, the kind you find at the second hand store. His whole person screams 'I own at least two cats and read Dostoyevsky for fun'. I would enjoy removing every piece of clothing, feeling the fabric slip between my fingers, almost as much as I would enjoy feeling his naked skin beneath the pads of my thumbs.

I turn my head when he looks up at me. Sometimes I wonder how it is he doesn't remember me. Sometimes I'm grateful he doesn't. Sometimes I'm certain he knows exactly who I am, and just doesn't feel the need to say anything.

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><p>"What do you want from me?"<p>

It's Tuesday, and the bistro is quiet. His voice cuts through me like a knife. That refined Anglo inflection makes the hair on my arms stand stock straight. I force my face to remain impassive and sink my teeth into the Danish I've neglected all morning. My mind is racing. Does he know me? Has he always known? Or is it something else?

Has he noticed the way I watch him? Heard the groans from my lips on the witching hour, when my hand follows my mind to places I can only imagine he'd ever touch? I remain silent, and sip at my tea.

I don't look up when I hear the metal chair scrape back against the pavement. I don't look up when his cool fingers close around my wrist, or when he removes the cup from my grasp.

"I asked you a question."

"And I didn't answer," I reply softly. I move my eyes to his. The effect is similar to being punched in the gut, hard.

"I know you."

My hands are beginning to shake. I should leave, I should run away. But I can't. I'm glued, rooted to the spot and unable to make head nor tails of my thoughts. I can't think to speak, can't reason to lie. So instead I sit, and I stare across the sidewalk. There's a woman, walking her dog—

"I know you. I know I do. What do you want from me?"

"Why would I want anything from you?"

"I see you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do."

It's silent. I keep my eyes trained on the ground until I hear the tell-tale sign of the chair against the concrete. He's gone. My heart is throbbing in my mouth.

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><p>"Listen. I want you to stop following me, okay? It was alright before, but now it's just—Christ. It's not normal, you understand? It's not…healthy. Alright?"<p>

He's standing so close I can hardly move without breathing in his scent. That floral odor, like honey and nectar in April. I lean my back against the door, my hands buried deep in my jeans pockets. I flick my hair out of my eyes, blinking. His eyes are confused, hesitant. He watches me for a signal.

"No."

His eyebrows furrow. He takes a step back.

"What do you mean? You've got to. You've got to leave me alone."

He sounds frantic, but I can't sympathize. I've never had to feel that sensual sting, that shiver of the spine that suggests that something otherworldly is standing in your presence. I've never had to feel my own evil, not the way he is now. I wonder, momentarily, if he ever looks over his shoulder for me.

"No, I don't, Phillip," I say his name softly, and his eyes go all hazy like he isn't sure what to do with himself. Two steps and our noses are almost touching. He leans in like he wants to, like he's considered it before. I lean in because I've considered it a thousand times, but before the sensitive skin of lips and lips can touch, he's gone. The slamming of the door tells me 'not far', and I smile.

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><p>It's been two months. Our lips have touched seven times. Our hands have tangled twice. Mostly, though, we just sit in his apartment and watch the pictures flash across his old TV screen. I like <em>Casablanca<em> the best.

Tuesday comes again.

"Phillip? What are you doing?"

I've opened the door, and he's standing in the center of the living room, or what doubles as a living room and part of the dining space. He's holding a canister of kosher salt in one hand, and the other is clutching his opposite hip, a nervous habit I've noticed has worsened over time. His body is framed by a ring of the white crystals, his eyes alight with something I can never quite place.

"A ring of salt will protect you. The book said that. So you can't come near me, alright? I've got a bloody ring of salt. And you can't touch me. So don't even bother."

I shake my head. I can't help it; it's so ridiculous, I can't even stop myself. I've crossed the room in four quick strides, and in two more I'm standing with both my feet over the barrier of salt that he's poured senselessly all over the floor. He swallows, and his hands are clutching at the leather of my jacket.

"I don't want this. I don't want to love you," he whispers softly. I drag my fingertips through his hair, trying to remember what it felt like when we were children and his locks had nearly touched his shoulders. I can't. It's all faded, all old and misshapen—my memory is fading. The idea makes me feel frantic, and I clutch him tighter against my chest.

That night, we fuck for the first time. He moans my name when he comes, and falls asleep against my chest. I watch the streetlights from the city dance across the ceiling. I listen to his breathing. I count my heartbeats.

I feel awake.

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><p>The cat has taken a liking to me. Pip says it reminds him of me, the way its fur is black and its eyes are bright and blue. I call him 'Cee-A-Tee'. He sleeps at my end of the bed. I don't ever say it, but I envy the cat a little. It's so gentle. It's life so simple and full of fleeting joy. It's always well-fed and watered.<p>

It's loved.

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><p>It's been nearly two years. We've kissed one thousand, seven hundred, and eighty-two times. We've clasped hands nine hundred and twenty-six times. We've fucked more times than I can count or recall. Mostly, though, we just sit in our apartment and watch the pictures flash across the screen of our old TV.<p>

I hold his thin body against my chest as the muted scenes of _Breakfast at Tiffany's _cast their glow across our faces. I can feel it in his bones, sense it at the very center of my wasted core. He's not happy.

I don't flinch when his soft English inflection breaks the silence.

"Damien. Do you love me?"

"There's no such thing."

"You don't mean that."

He waits for me to confirm that he's right, that I don't mean it. That I love him without ends or beginnings, that I will always care for him in the right way. The decent way. But I don't.

Instead, I press my lips against the nape of his neck and whisper that I'm tired. And then I peel myself away from him, and disappear into the blackness of the hallway.

I collapse on the bed in a fit. My heart is hammering so hard that I can taste blood in my mouth. My limps are twitching, shaking with the adrenaline that could have only come from him. I do love him. Without ends or beginnings, without borders or walls. I love him so much I want to _scream_.

I feel my breath coming from between my lips in fractured gasps. It's almost like feeling alive.

Like being free.

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><p>It's Tuesday. I wake up in the blue darkness of twilight, and the space beside me is empty. I don't flinch. Instead, I crawl out of bed, my feet tracing the lines in the wooden floor. The closet is open, but it's only hangers on his side. Hangers and a tie he never liked, something his grandmother had sent him for his birthday once. I step into the living room, and nothing's all that different. Just muted, like that film. Quiet. Almost like we were asleep.<p>

I sit down at the table. I don't have to look to know that his hat is gone from the hook behind the door.

My fingers close around the salt shaker. I knock the crystals into my palm, reminded of how he'd tried to protect himself from me. From this. And maybe he'd been right after all. Because even without the strings, I never could tell him.

The truth.

I dump the glass out on the table and run my finger slowly through the white dust. I can feel Cee-A-Tee mewling against my back.

'**I miss you.**

**The cat misses you more, though.**

**We are still young.'**

I sit back in the chair. They say the last enemy that will be destroyed is death.

The first?

Life.

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><p><strong>AN - Thank you for reading! Look forward to reviews for this one..curious what everyone thinks!**


	5. Messages

**A/N – Hello my lovelies. So today we're taking a little field trip into the mind of my favorite South Park character (And my Spirit Animal). **

**Rating still applies.**

**Inspired by my best friend Jessie, whom I love and dedicate this to.**

**Pairing: Crenny**

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><p><strong>Auto Response FWD: The number you are trying to reach is out of service. The following is an automatic forwarding response.<strong>

** "If you're getting this, I'm dead. Try again later! – K. M."**

I don't know how I ended up here. Lying on my bedroom floor, face pressed into the green shag of my carpet, and my fingers curled around my cellphone. I don't know what time it is. I don't know the last time I had anything to eat. I don't remember the last night I slept for more than an hour without waking up in a cold sweat. I don't know how I came to bother, how I came to care. Didn't even think it was in my nature. But that's the thing about Kenny McCormick. He's mysterious.

I roll over onto my back so I can breathe, and then I light a cigarette. I never bother to crack the window anymore, because really, who gives a fuck? It hangs between my lips as my eyes scan each of the imperfections of my ceiling mold. Waiting. That's all it is anymore. A game. A waiting game. I fucking hate waiting. The idea of it makes my skin crawl, because it suggests that I care enough to do so. And if I'm being honest with myself, these days—I care enough about him to wait.

It's been six days. Six hazy, endless days and I feel like I'm losing my mind (Or what's left of it). Six days of half-assed joints and four hour trips to the bathroom at school. Six days of pills and cups of coffee and cans of soda that have begun to pile up in my trash can in the form of a small mountain with an ever-rising peak. This sort of neglect is ridiculous, even for me. I've even named the fucking thing. My eyes travel to it now, taking in the sharp incline of the metal cans that I've affectionately called Mt. Hopeless Headcase. I turn my cell phone over in my fingers. I take a drag off my cigarette.

The truth is, this is all Marsh's goddamn fault. That's what always makes this kind of wait harder to accept. Because I have half a mind to walk my tall ass over to that dick's house and pull his scrotum over his nose. But then I remember that I'm Craig Mother Tucker, and I don't give two shits. That's who I am, what I've let all these fucks I call friends think I'm made of. But the truth is, I haven't got any friends. The truth is, I don't want any.

Just _him_.

And so what if I'm fucking jealous? So what if I fuck my hand to the thoughts of him in my bed, instead of the backseat of that jock shithead's Ford Fiesta? So fucking _what? _I don't give a shit. Fuck.

My fingers close around the warm casing of my cell phone, and two taps of my thumb bring the screen to my view.

_**Where the fuck are you?**_

***Auto Response FWD: The number you are trying to reach is out of service. The following is an automatic forwarding response.**

** "If you're getting this, I'm dead. Try again later! – K. M."**

I grunt and throw the piece of shit phone across the room. Because, why the fuck not? I close my eyes and take a drag on my cigarette. I try to breathe. My chest feels thick and constricted, like my ribs are too tight for how fucking huge my insides are. And I do want him. And I am fucking jealous. And if I had him, I'd treat him _better. _A snail could treat him better. And fuck Stan Marsh and his fucking white horse. Fuck him. Fuck horses.

The funny thing about all this is, I used to hate them. Stan and his hip posse of total fucking jackholes. Everything they spewed out was a load of shit and they all thought so goddamn _highly _of themselves…God, it was hard not to hate them. Not that I didn't already hate most things. Not that I wasn't hateful to the core, even at ten years old. I had my own group, sure. I had my own hip posse of jackholes. But those were _my _jackholes. Those guys were _my _guys.

Were.

Middle school changed shit. Or maybe I changed. Or maybe they did. Doesn't matter. I hate change. I hate that I change all the time. I hate that I can't stop myself from doing it. I hate that with change came this startling loneliness. Because by high school I was just Craig. Fuck _those _guys. There was no "Craig and those guys". Just lonely, tall, high and mighty Craig Tucker who didn't give a _fuck. _And maybe I would've survived. And maybe I was okay that way. I don't know anymore. But one day I was sitting on the football field smoking a jay and suddenly there was Kenny, all unkempt blonde hair and patched up hoodie and bleeding heart and I just remember thinking: Hey. This guy's broken, just like me. This guy likes to get all spliffed and sorted, just like me. This guy's kind of got a sense of humor about all this shit. I kind of _like _this guy.

I don't know how I got here, though. I release the air I didn't realize I was holding from between my teeth. I don't know when I started to care. I don't know when I started to ache. Maybe it was that first time I saw Stan put his greasy all-American paws all over Kenny's body. Maybe it was that night I got so fucked up I couldn't move and I woke up with Kenny slapping my cheek and a mL of saline being shot into my arm. Maybe it was that one day we got so phenomenally drunk we ended up tangled on my bed, with my fingers down the front of his jeans and his tongue in my mouth.

Stan had loved that one.

I grimace, a pang of envy shooting up my spine. I'm embarrassed to admit it only takes me about five seconds to be on my hands and knees, crawling after the phone I'd thrown in my little mantrum two minutes ago. I find it behind a pile of dirty clothes I've let build inside my closet. What's the fucking point of laundry, when all I want to do is smoke a bowl and feel sorry for myself?

_**McCormick, if I have to smoke another blunt by myself, I swear to fucking God…**_

***Auto Response FWD: The number you are trying to reach is out of service. The following is an automatic forwarding response.**

** "If you're getting this, I'm dead. Try again later! – K. M."**

I don't throw my phone this time. Mostly because I don't want to crawl after it again. So what If I'm fucking lazy? What's it to you? Fuck.

The fucked up thing is, I know Kenny doesn't love me. Love. God I'm a fucking pussy. It's true though, he doesn't. I can see it in his face when he looks at that fucker he calls his boyfriend. The one who won't even hold his hand in public. The one who pretends they're just friends unless he's physically bending Kenny over the backboard of his bed. Kenny loves Stan. Because, really. Stan's a God, isn't he? All height and muscles and pretty fucking blue eyes.

I hate Stan.

Sometimes, I think Kenny knows that I love him. Sometimes, I even think about just telling him myself. Just growing a fucking backbone and saying something like "Hey, McCormick. You are everything that's anything to me and I will physically break anything or anyone that even so much as displeases you."

Sometimes, I think about just giving up the act. Giving up everything that is Craig Tucker, because really, who gives a shit?

I'm not happy. I've never been fucking happy, but I've also never been unhappy. And lately, I am. All the goddamn time and it's because of _him. _

I won't ever tell him, though. Not over my dead body. Not if it was the last minute of our lives and all he wanted to hear was a promise from my lips, sealed with a kiss.

_**You know, sometimes when you're gone, I wish I could die too. Sometimes, I miss you so bad I can't breathe. I really fucking love you, and I hate it.**_

I press my phone against my forehead, rocking slightly. These are things he'll never know, never fully understand. Messages that will never go anywhere, except out into the universe. I'm truly a spineless coward.

I sink onto my back, stubbing my cigarette out on a plate that's found its way under my desk. My phone is buzzing against my chest, and I glance down for the automated response message that I know will be present on my screen.

What I see written there instead nearly stops my whole fucking body in its tracks.

_**I love you, too. **_


	6. Neutral

**A/N: Back! This time with a little Halloween one-shot for you guys. This idea came to me last night while I was walking around downtown in my costume. Hope you enjoy!**

**Pairing: Cromas**

**Title: Neutral**

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><p>My head won't stop buzzing. Maybe it was those shots I took, or maybe it was those last five cigarettes in the car outside of the Sev-o. Maybe it's just my heart, which has been pounding like Cinderella Man since I snapped the mismatched buttons up on my flannel shirt. I try to take a deep breath but I can't get the air in my lungs. I'm practically panting, and my knuckles are going numb from the death grip I've had on my steering wheel.<p>

I blink and shake my head.

My thoughts feel cloudy and messy, and my resolution is wavering somewhere between 'this is now' and 'please, dear God, just go home'. I know I want to do this, know that it's important that he finds out, but at the same time I really hope I never have to face him again after. Or at all. Maybe I could just make a quick left—but I've already idled in front of his driveway for an hour, and I probably ought to get out of my car soon because I'm positive that someone as meticulous as Craig Tucker has long since noticed the rumbling of my engine.

I glance at my stick. I've had this car in neutral for so long I don't know if I can even put it back in first. I'm sure I've stalled by now, that I'm stuck in one place. That to pull away I'd have to put it in park, flick off my engine, restart the car and pump my clutch. That I'd have to take steps—and I'm not sure which is worse. The conscious effort I'd have to take to escape these feelings or the ten feet I'd have to walk to get to the Tucker's front door.

But that's how things have always been with Craig and I, since that day we met eight years ago. I've never been sure, never been confident. I've been idling with my feelings for him since I hit puberty, and now—It's easy, though. Being in the middle. Standing in the center of it all, teetering on the edge of one way and the next. Because if you don't choose, nothing gets crossed out. If you don't choose, everything remains possible.

I glance longingly at my ignition, and then back to Craig's porch. I used to think that if I just waited, Craig would come to me. That if I dragged my feet long enough he'd show up at my door one day, ready to fuck me raw and claim me physically the way he's gotten hold over my head. He never has. Never would, if I'm being completely honest with myself. Craig doesn't have the kind of self-confidence it takes to make the moves, and the short of it is neither do I. So now he's in love with someone else, and suddenly I can't stand it anymore. I've got to make a choice, to make a conscious decision. I've got to make a move, or lose it altogether.

Of course, I've tried to get over him. I've tried to let go of long Sunday afternoons stretched out on my bed, listening to Jefferson Airplane and watching Craig fold my clothes. I've tried to forget sharing a cigarette in the park, or the way he says my name when I can't get a grip on my tick. The way he used to look at me before he fell head over heals for Trevor Tweak and forgot to text me on the weekends.

I sink further into my seat, trying to think what I'd say if I could even get out of the car. How does one go about admitting something like that? 'Hey, I love you. I've always loved you. I can't think straight unless you're holding me close. I feel stupid without you. I hate myself without you. I can't believe I've waited this long.'

It sounds so cheesy. So far from the truth of how I feel about Craig—those words could never even begin to justify how badly I want him. How much he makes me feel. How much confidence he gives me, just by gracing my careless, fragile form with his presence. I look to his door and my heart jumps into my mouth. I try to picture it.

I'd turn my car off, and get out. Clip my keys to my belt loop and take the ten steps to his front porch. And then I'd knock, and maybe he'd answer. Or maybe it would be his sister. Or maybe his mother, if she was around today. And then he'd be there, and before he could ask what I wanted I'd hold his face inside my hands. And I'd say something like…

Craig. You are the smell before the rain. You are the blood inside my veins. You are everything that is anything and I will die if you don't kiss me right this second. Please don't love him. Please don't want him more than me.

I frown. A group of kids walk by, all dressed in costume. I watch a little skeleton steal a box of Mike and Ikes from a little ghost, and I tug at my shirt. It's always been a given that there's a resemblance between myself and Craig's current squeeze. Maybe it's the jitters, and the blondness. Or maybe it's the way we both stammer when we talk, or the way we're both pathetically codependent, in our separate and special ways.

I wonder if Craig will understand, when he sees me. If he'll notice the way I've mismatched my buttons, or the cup of coffee in my hand. I wonder if he'll recognize that I could be Tweak for him, if he'd just come to me. If he'd meet me half way.

I glance back at my stick, reaching out for it and shifting before I can talk myself out of it. The porch light goes on, and a resounding chorus of 'trick-or-treat' serenades me as I step onto the pavement, into the cold October night and into the realm of made decisions.


End file.
